It’s me, even though it isn’t. I wouldn’t wear that even to a fancy dress party. But in the dream, it is me. Always the same. Every night. Ever since...Well, you know when.
It’s not just the outfit, it’s the gas mask, the death mask I call it, and the rope, and the wide, wide river. It’s like I’m telling myself ‘Do it. Just do it.’ But I don’t want to. I shouldn’t have to. What happened to me is not my fault. Is it?And that’s in the dream, too. I’m alone, yes, and somewhere awful. I feel it is so terrible, this place. Shades of grey amongst the darkness. Men are sliding in and out of the shadows, at the edge of the black corners of my consciousness. In my right hand, (it’s always the right, meaning good, right?) I’m holding an umbrella.